


Merzost

by Shakaka



Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Angst, Consequences, Gen, Mystery, Nichevo'ya, Self-Reflection, Suspense, Tragedy, failure - Freeform, grisha - Freeform, merzost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25445050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shakaka/pseuds/Shakaka
Summary: “…You may not be able to survive the sacrifice that Merzost requires…”Even the most powerful were not immune to retribution. As he lay dying on the sands of a forgotten Fold, Aleksander Morozova came to understand just what the price of Merzost truly cost. Never had the Science been more of an apt and brutal teacher than in his last moments.“…You must not trifle with this kind of power…Only misery can come of it…”Power which ran unchecked was dangerous; it appeared he was finally being brought to heel.
Kudos: 4





	Merzost

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I am not Leigh Bardugo (author of the Grisha Trilogy) so therefore I do not own her works, all recognisable content belongs to her and her associates. No copyright infringement intended, and no profit made, I simply like to toy with the established ideas for my own amusement.
> 
> Author’s Note: There are multiple spoilers in this story, especially concerning the third and final book, Ruin and Rising. If you have not read the entire series and do not wish to encounter any surprises, please do not continue. If spoilers are not a worry, then please continue.
> 
> Now, in this story please assume Aleksander was left to die alone.
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy!

* * *

He was a bleeding black stain against an endless spread of white, darkness unearthed from its unholy foundations and exposed for all to see. Breath shivered from exhausted and drowning lungs, agony dancing along the lethal wound in his chest and the heart beneath a failing beast.

 _I am dying_ , a part of him realized even as he clung determinedly to whatever lucidity remained, centering on the steady _pulse_ of agony synchronized with his fading heartbeat and stuttering lungs, the pain as grounding as it was poisonous. Perhaps that was how he heard, beyond the disturbing ringing in his ears and the slowly creeping deafness, as the sand shifted. It was a gentle step, the whisper of a presence.

His breath escaped on a sigh, pained and hopeful and loathing, "…Alina?"

No answer arrived as the sand shifted again, heavier in its movement as if the presence were kneeling, yet he could see nothing but an indiscernible mass to his right. He stared vacantly upwards at the burning blue sky disrupted by vicious slashes of black, remnants of the Fold and reminders of his failings. He had been the greatest of them all, once. The most powerful, the most feared and respected but his ambition had become his downfall, his pride and power lust toxic catalysts.

"Your Sun Summomer is no longer." the voice was feminine but held a weight which he had never heard from Alina, a weight which he found echoed in his own voice through the years. The shackles of eternal loneliness, of a deep and hollow yearning, an anger and a sadness – then eventually a cold uncaring, acceptance and emotional retreat. Disinterest. Detachment. "You are alone now, Aleksander Morozova."

Disquiet furrowed between his brows, a glint of suspicion vanishing behind steel-gray eyes as _danger_ sparked ominously within his mind. Only two people knew of his name and one of them was dead, body shattered at the base of a frozen mountain. Alina was alive, of that he knew, but he did not care for the person she was now, the Forsaken Orphan. He had believed, once, that she belonged with the Grisha and at his side but to see how easily she cast away her power, to witness her sacrifice something so _fundamental_ to her identity without second thought…

She never deserved what was given to her for she never fully understood nor respected what power she possessed. In Aleksander’s heart she was a ghost now – the Sun Summoner had died in the Fold, alongside her forsaken Tracker.

It was a hollow ache in his bones, this thought, for he could no longer sense her power, her _brilliance_ and his balance. His Sun Summoner was gone, sacrificed through Sankta Alina. She was nothing now, an _otkazat’sya_. She had abandoned him just as she had abandoned herself and she would never return here.

With this realization confusion settled heavily at the base of his skull, an aggressive prodding and instinctual defense. The unknown was dangerous, ignorance was folly and he was at his most vulnerable against an enigma which knew his identity, perhaps much more. He felt exposed and for the first time in a very long time, anxious. It was a transitory thing, a quickly shunned shadow across his thoughts but it left a bitter aftertaste and the vicious whisper of weakness lingering long after its disappearance. It startled his muddled mind into action and he opened his mouth to speak, to prod, to glean information for which he could twist to his advantage as he had successfully done so many times before, but his body betrayed him. A wheeze tore from his chest, a struggle for breath with liquid heavy in his lungs. Something warm escaped from the side of his mouth, tasting of metal. _Blood._

 _I am dying,_ that small part of him whispered once more, _Yet I cannot go peacefully_. It had always been a fight for control, for power, for freedom – as a son, as Aleksander, as the Black Heretic, as the Darkling, as a King. The recipe had always been the same, the results always varying degrees of success and yet he was never satisfied. Not with his power, his prestige, his beauty, his loyal followers, his victories. There had always been something else to tempt him, something else to challenge for a long life could be incredibly dull without intellectual stimulation. Baghra had sparked his curiosity, sowed his arrogance and supported his ambition. Selfishness and supremacy had naturally followed. She had been his starting point, his foundation of which to measure against all else, and what a formidable foundation she had been…

 _It is unsurprising_ , he reasoned, _That I have continued to triumph as I have_.

The brush of air against his wrist startled Aleksander from his thoughts and he was shocked to realise he had forgotten about the presence at his side. It was unlike him to be so vague, so inattentive but he was wounded and bleeding, his thoughts muddled and confused things. Blood loss and exhaustion and pain created a haze within his mind, his unrivalled brilliance of strategy and genius and manipulations crumbling beneath something so utterly mundane, so _mortal_. It was like quicksand, the more he struggled the more he sank.

"You were honorable, once,” the stranger whispered, a note of reverence weaved between tones of sorrow. He feebly shifted his face toward the mass of form gathered at the edge of his vision, but he could see nothing discernable. His senses were starting to fail, lucidity deteriorating and yet he felt the oddest sensation within his veins. A pounding, a swelling, a drawing, it crept along his skin, through his blood. _I know you_ , it whispered, _and you know me_.

The muscles in his hands twitched reflexively, an instinctive summoning to defend what he could not rationally understand but intuited to be dangerous. He waited for the silken feel to gather at his fingertips, the seductive sliding of darkness and _power_ to seep from his skin, yet there was resistance. It was foreign, _wrong_ , for he had never struggled to wield the shadows, never failed in expanding beyond old limits.

His hands flexed again but a cavernous emptiness greeted him. Terror was an icy drop down his spine for suddenly he could not wield, could not summon. The shadows would not _listen!_

The breeze against his wrist tightened and he realized, frantically, that it was not a breeze at all but a touch. The skin was cool and smooth, drowning and grounding and _drawing_. He felt their pull and his answering call deep within – was this stranger an amplifier? The faint sense of confidence, of calmness and rightness pressing against his alarm was so utterly _wrong_. He had always been the one to generate these feelings, never submit to them. He had always been the one in control, the most powerful, the most _influential_. This sense of surrender, this loss of control, was threatening and frightening in a way he had never experienced before. For his power to react like this, for something so fundamental to his identity to simply _yield_ …it was not right.

“What is this?” he demanded, voice strangled but severe, a cold light of fury in his eyes and sharp words wringing from bloodied lips. Gone was the disinterest, the detachment, the impenetrable steel wall the Darkling had mastered throughout the centuries. In its place was wicked poison, barbed shards of darkness and defensive daggers raised to conceal the weakness beneath, the fear and uncertainty and vulnerability for _he_ _did not understand!_

The unknown was dangerous, ignorance was folly.

“I watched when you were young and free. I nurtured your caution and curiosity, admired your fierce intelligence and ambition, fortified your power. You manipulated with mastery. You wielded shadows of darkness yet burned brighter than the stars. You needed no Sun Summoner, Aleksander, you had your own brightness, your own strength, your own anchor within for otherwise you could never wield such obscurity, such power. You simply lost your way." Her voice was gentle, compassionate as she laid a hand against his cheek – before her grip became firm, almost punishing.

 _Baghra_ , a part of him sighed, _Mother_. Had she returned, then, to haunt his last moments? To comfort him, or confront him? This stranger did not speak like the woman who raised him, she did not sound worn and bitter. Old, yes, but not heavy, not resentful.

 _Who are you?_ he wanted to ask, to plead, to demand. He needed to understand, to think and strategize and manipulate but his strength was waning, the warmth in his skin fading. He shivered from the creeping clutches of death and the grief in her touch echoed within his chest, burrowed into the hollows of his ebbing and uncontrollable power, dredging from the depths all that he had suppressed. The guilt, the sorrow, the anger, the _loneliness_. Warmth bled from the corners of his eyes, traitorous tears of heartache and happiness and as if the earth cried freely with him, the scent of rain and storm permeated the air. "But then you hid. You concealed the brightness within your soul and cast the world in perpetual shadow." She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead which achingly reminded him of his mother, of her harsh words concealing an old fear, of her hard laughter concealing old wounds. She had been cold as a mother, unfeeling, dispassionate but strong, clever, ingraining in him a sense of self-determination and the value of power. Yet even in her harshest moments there had been a support, a love – fickle as she had told him such notions were – which burned in the shadows they wielded. Her heart was bitter but strong with age, haunted by past regrets and future concerns. Aleksander knew she had been so harsh, so cold to him in his upbringing because she had loved him. She had never wanted him to suffer like she had – if that was not love, then he did not know what was.

A gentle sigh carried a refreshing breeze across his pale cheeks as the stranger whispered, "You could have repaired what you tore open so many years ago. _For are we not all things?_ " The comfort of her proximity vanished as she straightened, leaning away. "I love you as I do all others, but you slaughtered my children due to your power lust, Black Heretic. I will not allow you to take more from me. You dabbled in that which was not yours to touch, you committed the most heinous crimes and blatantly disrespected the powers which made you what you are. You had _no_ _right_ ; the matter of creation was never yours to wield.” Her voice gentled to a whisper, the profound promise of darkness turned against him like his shadows, "For you, it will be the ultimate price. If you so desired to be a leader, a king, a Saint, then you will suffer the worst of them all."

Thoughts were slow, ideas a distant thing but an instinctual understanding flowed through him, clinging to the force which drew and _drew_ , which called. It was exhausting, claiming and it stole a panicked gasp from his throat, an unspoken plea. His words to Alina rang clear in his mind, a threat and a promise: _I will strip away all that you know, all that you love, until you have no shelter but me_.

"I was patient with you, Aleksander. I sat and waited and hoped you would turn from your path, but you never did. I gave you mercy and you gave me ruin.” A rustle of fabric like the scattering leaves of autumn and warmth ghosted against his ear, an intimate breath, “ _May the Saints have mercy on the darkness of your soul, if they can even see you at all_."

" _Why?_ " he implored, desperate to grasp any ambiguities that he could twist and turn to regain his power. But the force continued to draw, and he continued to weaken.

"You disgraced the Old Ways. You spat in the face of forces much greater than yourself. You abandoned all that was given to you in your greed and now,” moving slowly, she placed the ghost of a kiss against his lips, the mockery of a lover's caress as she murmured, “ _All will abandon you_." Her touch was featherlight and yet brutally grounding, for he saw her in startling clarity.

Eyes the colour of teal, within them he saw vast oceans and rolling hills. Her hair spilt across slender shoulders like bleeding black coal, reminding him of his forsaken shadows, his last solid and steady companion now ripped brutally from his grasp. Lips the colour of blood, he imagined the cycle of life and death and love and hate. Her skin was as smooth as a starless night, tinted a gentle brown like the burnished hues of autumn and her touch burning, a wintry intensity thawed only by the heat of summer. She was _everything_ within his field of view and no one that he recognised, yet a part of him acknowledged her like an old friend.

She was so wisely ancient, yet so beautifully youthful. An infant's first heartbeat and an elder's final breath. Sunlight and darkness, earth and wind, fire and water. The beginning and the end. _Odinakovost_ and _etovost_.

" _Who are you?_ " he gasped as the _draw_ within her touch finally ceased and everything settled. In the moment of stillness everything was blindingly clear, yet disturbingly secretive. He felt empty, hollow, as if the marrow had been sucked from his very bones and nothing replaced. Was there no more blood to bleed? No more room in his lungs to breathe? It was a deathly calm to accompany the hollow aching deep within, a soul-shattering emptiness where once his power had resided. He felt used and worn, every bit the centuries-old enigma he knew himself to be. The beauty of being _Grisha_ withered and waned from his veins and he could summon nothing to maintain his defences. He felt _powerless_.

 _All will abandon you_ … It was a daunting thing to realise that now, he was nothing more than an _otkazat’sya._ Orphaned. Abandoned.

“I am _Sankt’ya,”_ the woman hummed, and he saw the purity, the beauty and sacrifice and pain and suffering. “I am _maleni,”_ he saw the contradictions, the ethereal glow and flickering image, as if she was not truly there but whole at the same time. “I am _razrusha’ya_ and _razrushhost,”_ he saw Genya, her impossible beauty and wicked actions. He saw the Fold, a vicious slash of black which overwhelmed its enemies in its creation, consumed innocence and created evil. Ruin and ruination. “I am _Nichevo'ya,”_ he saw the creatures wrought from shadow, nameless and nefarious humanoid shapes with grotesque outlines, with arms and claws and wings. They spilt before his eyes like blank ink, staining and profuse, movements fluid and flowing like silk. Seductive in their darkness, terrifying in their intent. He could not look away for they were once his creations, his pride and joy as vile as they were, the physical embodiment of his only stable companion.

His fingers flexed again, instinctive, pleading but they did not draw near. They hovered out of reach, unreceptive, untouchable, uncontrollable, snapping and snarling at the weakness they perceived, the bloodied and broken form of their forsaken creator. It was a bitter realization, to see how his creations had abandoned him like everything else.

His vision blurred now, the shadows encroaching, shadows he could no longer control. He was helpless now and yet through the darkness he saw. Her smile was cruel and achingly beautiful, a distant sunset promising warmth but delivering the impending cold of night with a vicious glint of sharp teeth and coldly compassionate eyes. She brought him the brutal reminder of mortality as she leaned closer and placed a hand against his wound. Agony seared sharp and burning through his chest, bloodied screams gurgling in his lungs as his thoughts scattered like leaves on the wind. He convulsed beneath her touch, arched into and drew away from her presence, glimpsed how the shadows and sunlight flared and died around them. The ground beneath his body pulsed, the distant ocean roared as she reached forward and held his jaw, wiped the tears from his cheeks and silenced the screams in his throat. Her hand left his chest as his heart slowed, cold clawing up his limbs, inevitability skittering along his skin and down his spine. It left numbness in its wake, a soothing nothingness, a respite from the pain. The many ghosts of his victims swooped through the darkening of his gaze – he glimpsed Baghra and Nikolai and Alina, watched as civilizations fell, as kings bled and princes bloomed.

He listened to her one last time, clung to the promise of salvation and damnation as his eyes slid closed, as his breaths ceased, as his heart stilled, and his thoughts silenced.

“ _I am_ _Merzost_.”

And then he felt nothing at all.

**Author's Note:**

> RAVKAN LANGUAGE (as taken from The Grishaverse Wiki):  
>   
> Etovost – Uniqueness, thatness  
> Grisha – Those who practice the Small Science (manipulating matter)  
> Maleni – Ghost(s)  
> Merzost – Magic, abomination, the power of unnatural creation, something from nothing  
> Nichevo'ya – Nothings  
> Odinakovost – Sameness, thisness  
> Otkazat’sya – Orphaned, abandoned, non-Grisha  
> Razrusha’ya – Ruined  
> Razrushhost – Ruination  
> Sankta / Sankt’ya – Saint / of the Saints


End file.
